by Diane Gaston
She hurried down the hallway and climbed the stairs, stopping and resting her cheek against the stone wall. Lucas seemed so solid, like someone who could be trusted, but, truly, they knew nothing about him. Still, she felt more at ease with Lucas than she did with Mr Hargreave, a man from a family known to hers, friends of their good friends, the Crawfurds, a man vouched for by Lady Crawfurd as a good match for her.
That was laughable. This new turn of events made it even more ludicrous that Mr Hargreave would wish to court her. He’d drop his suit soon enough if he knew the true extent of their finances.
But she had to pretend all was well, did she not? That meant at least being hospitable to Mr Hargreave.
The walk he’d insisted upon had been torturous. Any time the shrubbery hid them from the house, Mairi was reminded of the man dragging her into the bushes where no one could see. She found Mr Hargreave’s charm unsettling. So often he seemed to put some secret meaning behind his words, a significance she did not understand, but which made her uneasy. Not only that, but she also noticed every detail of the gardens that had not been tended. Poor old Kinley could not do everything himself. Had Mr Hargreave noticed? He’d not let on.
Mairi did not like that Mr Hargreave had asked Lucas questions about the family. What was it he wished to learn and why? She did not want him to know anything about her or her family.
All she wanted right this minute was to walk through the house and make a list of items that might help raise some money, as Lucas had suggested.
She pushed away from the wall and made her way back to the library, intending to speak with her father, but, upon entering the room, it was not her father who looked up from his desk, but Mr Hargreave.
He stood and bowed. ‘Miss Wallace. What a pleasure.’
She was shocked. ‘What are you doing at my father’s desk?’
He smiled sheepishly. ‘Looking for pen, ink and paper. I thought to write a letter.’
It was a smooth answer and one she did not readily believe. She walked over to a small leather-topped rosewood writing table and opened the drawer. ‘You will find writing materials in here.’
‘Ah.’ He moved away from her father’s desk towards what was obviously a writing table. He lifted a piece of paper, but placed it back down again. ‘I confess I intended merely to fill the time writing a letter. Your father and Lord Crawfurd are, I believe, playing billiards, and your mother and Lady Crawfurd are in your mother’s sitting room. If you are at liberty, I would welcome your company.’
No, she wanted to cry.
‘I am at a loss to entertain you. There is not much to interest anyone in this house.’
His smile did not waver. ‘I would enjoy a tour. I noticed several curious family portraits. You could tell me about your family history. I do love history.’
This seemed an odd request. And she certainly did not want to spend more time alone with him. ‘If you wish.’ She felt trapped, but could think of no way out of the situation. ‘Shall I start in this room?’
‘At your pleasure,’ he said, bowing again.
She pointed to the Wallace crest, prominent over the fireplace. ‘My father is a descendent of William Wallace, which is a source of great pride for him and for our family. The relationship is a distant one, but Papa likes to say that William Wallace’s blood flows through our veins, none the less.’ She gave this speech without enthusiasm.
It struck her that her father’s pride in being a descendent of the hero of the first war of Scottish independence was so important to him that the shame of a financial downfall would probably destroy him.
She talked about the other paintings in the room, paintings that had hung on those walls her whole life—and during many other lives before her. What would happen to it all? Would selling some of it save her family?
Mr Hargreave was an attentive audience and did not show any indication of being aware that her dispassionate discourse masked the pain she felt inside.
* * *
Hargreave contrived to spend every spare minute with Mairi Wallace, engaging her in conversation during dinner, sitting with her at tea afterwards, turning the pages of her music sheets while she played the pianoforte. He was certain he had the support of her mother and Lady Crawfurd, but Miss Wallace herself remained distantly polite.
It made her a challenge. He greatly liked challenges.
He insisted on escorting her to her room when it was time to retire for the night. When she turned the latch of the door, he put his hand on hers.
‘I have so enjoyed your company, Miss Wallace,’ he murmured in an earnest tone.
At his touch, her whole body stiffened and she whipped around to stare him in the face. ‘Have you?’ She pulled her hand away.
He smiled as if she’d made a jest. ‘I have, very much. And I look forward to spending more time with you at Lord and Lady Oxmont’s house party.’
She looked less than eager at this prospect.
It made him move even closer. Her eyes flashed with alarm. He moved back again. Obviously he’d not played that moment well. Too bad. There was no one else in the hallway. It would have been a perfect time to steal a kiss.
Instead she lifted the latch. ‘Goodnight, Mr Hargreave.’
It was a firm dismissal.
He chuckled inside. He’d win her eventually. One way or another.
He took a step forward. She gaped at him in alarm. He withdrew slowly and gave her his most engaging smile. ‘Sleep well, Miss Wallace.’
* * *
The next morning after breakfast had been served, the guests’ trunks and valises were carried down to be placed on the carriage. Lucas stood outside with the other servants while the family bid the guests goodbye. He waited, ready to receive from Lord Crawfurd and Hargreave the vails servants could expect from guests. These servants could certainly use payment from someone and they deserved to be compensated for the extra work they’d done.
Lord Crawfurd passed him by with not even a glance.
Hargreave walked up to him. ‘Sassenach, I understand your kind expect vails to be paid to servants by guests. We Scots gave up that practice years ago. I am inclined to be generous, though, since you undoubtedly expect it.’ He dropped some coins into Lucas’s hand.
This was a show of power, of superiority, although why this man needed to lord it over Lucas was beyond him.
Lucas had no wish to let his contempt of Hargreave show. He removed any expression from his face and spoke in his emotionless voice. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Although he would have gladly thrown the coins into the man’s face.
He’d divide the money among the others. They’d earned it. Lucas was surprised that he felt as proud of the servants as he’d been of his soldiers. They’d done the work; he’d merely given the orders.
Lucas watched Hargreave approach Miss Wallace, always with that charming smile and leering eyes.
Hargreave took her hand in his. ‘Miss Wallace, I will count the days until we meet again at the house party.’ He lifted her hand as if preparing to kiss it, but released her instead.
What affectation. Was Hargreave trifling with her?
‘Goodbye, sir,’ Miss Wallace replied in her crisp voice.
Lucas smiled inwardly. Hargreave had not fooled her.
Lady Dunburn and Lady Crawfurd said tearful goodbyes as if they were not to see each other again for years instead of merely a fortnight. The Baron and Lord Crawfurd shook hands. Niven and the Crawfurd boy stood with Davina. William Crawfurd was smitten with Davina, that was evident. Lucas hoped Niven was looking out for her.
Lucas glanced away. Good God, he was becoming attached to this family and their servants. Not so long ago he’d cared for nothing and no one.
Finally, Lady Crawfurd was assisted into the waiting carriage and her husband after her. Hargreave tossed one more look towards M
iss Wallace before climbing inside. Last was Mrs Crawfurd’s maid. Lord Crawfurd’s valet and William climbed on top and the carriage was off. The family and the servants all remained where they were, watching until the carriage disappeared from sight. Then Niven uttered a loud whoop and tossed his hat in the air. They all gave a cheer and hugged each other.
‘We did it!’ Niven cried and the maids joined in. ‘We did it!’
Lucas could not help but smile. His gaze caught Miss Wallace’s and he thought he saw gratitude in her eyes. She and he were the most subdued of the group, though they ought, perhaps, to have been the most joyous, having done the most to disguise the true state of affairs on the estate. She, who’d worked all along at maintaining the house and its grounds; he, who’d merely played the role of butler.
Niven pulled on Davina’s arm. ‘Come on, Davina. Let’s ride.’ They were both dressed for it.
As they hurried away, Dunburn walked over to Lucas. ‘Thank you, Lucas. We owe you a great deal.’
‘My pleasure, sir.’ It had been a pleasure helping them. He caught Miss Wallace watching him. He turned to her father again. ‘We have more work to do, sir.’
‘Oh, yes. Yes,’ the older man sputtered. ‘Finding items to sell. Wouldn’t do well at that. Not at all. Mairi will have to help you.’
Chapter Eleven
‘Mairi!’ Her father gestured for her to come over to him.
She walked over to him. ‘Yes, Papa?’
‘You and Lucas here go through the house and find some things we might sell.’ He waved his hand in the direction of the house. ‘Listen to Lucas. He has a good head on his shoulders.’
She flared at her father’s words. No one knew the value of their furniture and paintings better than she did.
‘You will speak to Mama about her jewellery, will you not?’ Mairi countered.
Her father blinked and looked everywhere but at her. ‘Yes. Yes. I will. Straight away—soon.’
‘Now, please, Papa,’ she said. ‘Mama’s jewellery will bring the most money.’
‘You know how your mother loves her jewels,’ her father protested.
Yes, Mairi knew. And her father had been happy to indulge his wife with any pretty bauble she fancied—even when their servants were going unpaid.
‘It must be done,’ Mairi insisted.
Her father glanced at Lucas. Seeking Lucas’s opinion? Mairi saw red.
‘Must we sell jewellery?’ he asked Lucas.
‘Yes, you must,’ Lucas responded. He gave Mairi a knowing look. ‘Shall we start now, Miss Wallace?’
‘As you wish,’ she replied, hating that her father turned to Lucas for approval before agreeing to do as Mairi asked.
Before following her, Lucas raised his voice to the others. ‘You should return to work now. There is still much to be done.’
The maids and footmen almost stood at attention, as if they were soldiers under his command. Even Mrs Cross and Mrs MacNeal sobered at the sound of his voice.
He met Mairi at the door and opened it for her.
‘It seems everyone listens to you, Mr Lucas,’ she said hotly as she passed him to enter the house.
He entered behind her. ‘Your father should have listened to you, Miss Wallace.’
She crossed the hall and started up the stairs. She stopped to face him again when they reached the first floor. ‘We will start in my bedchamber.’
* * *
Lucas understood better than she could know how it was to have a parent prefer another over oneself. At Foxgrove Hall, the sun had always risen and set on his brother, Bradleigh, while Lucas had merely been a troublesome afterthought. When his parents had found out Bradleigh had secretly purchased a commission in the First Royals, a person would have thought it was the end of the world. His father had commanded Lucas to serve with Bradleigh and keep him alive.
When Lucas came home alone, broken in spirit and consumed with guilt, his mother had screamed that she wished it had been he who died. Not Bradleigh.
So had Lucas.
He still was not certain that Mairi Wallace had done him any favours by nursing him back to health, but perhaps he could save her life, so to speak, when he couldn’t save his brother’s. At least the style of her life.
He desired her happiness. He’d never met anyone more deserving of it, yet he sensed a deep sadness inside her. A bit like his own.
There was no question, though, that at this moment her unhappiness stemmed from her parents’ treatment of her. He hoped that helping her through this task would make matters better for her.
She led him to her room and opened the door. ‘I’ve already decided what we should sell.’
‘You must do the choosing, Miss Wallace,’ he told her. ‘No matter what your father said, you are the best judge.’
She glanced at him and again he sensed her pain. He stepped inside.
The room was so much like her. Without frills, but elegant in its simplicity. The walls of her room were a pale green with white plasterwork in the style of Robert Adam above the white mantel. The paintings on the walls were watercolours of various flowers and one a whimsical painting of a little girl with her cat. The bedcovers were a restful peach. The amount of furniture in the room would be considered almost spartan. A dressing table. A chest of drawers. A side table next to the bed.
The bed.
His gaze caught on the bed, so neat and tidy, but Lucas could imagine her in it, a tangle of linens and her bare skin matching the colour of the bedcovers.
He glanced away and caught her staring at him, her expression taut, her eyes wary. He kept his back to the bed.
‘What have you selected?’ Better to get down to the business at hand.
She walked over to the mantel and took down the only objects that were the least bit frivolous: a matched set of porcelain figurines. ‘Here. Sell these.’
Lucas knew almost nothing about porcelain figurines. One of these was a young woman holding a lamb in her lap, the other, a young man gazing adoringly at her, a lamb at his side. Both were romantically rendered, colourfully dressed country figures. They were seated on fanciful chairs made of tiny delicate porcelain flowers.
He wanted to ask why she would give up such pretty things. ‘Are these English?’ he asked instead.
‘No,’ she responded, her voice still sad. ‘My father would never buy me something made in England. They came from Frankfurt.’
‘They were a gift from your father?’ Surely they meant something to her?
She set her chin. ‘Yes, I love them, but such trifles are not as important to me as this house and this estate and the family title.’ She shoved the figurines into his hands. ‘I have more.’ She walked over to a small chest on the dresser and opened it. Inside were necklaces of garnets, strings of pearls, gold chains, matching earrings.
‘These are your jewels?’ Was she to give up all her treasures?
‘I’ve kept enough to get by.’ She gestured to a corner of the room. ‘I want to sell the mirror, too.’
It was a lovely cheval mirror in a mahogany frame, the sort a young lady would use to see her full-length reflection. ‘Do you not need a mirror?’
She set her chin. ‘There is one in Davina’s room I can use.’
These were too many sacrifices for one young woman. Undoubtedly she would not ask her mother or sister to give up their mirrors or their treasured gifts or most of their jewellery.
‘No,’ he said firmly, though she would not agree to his reasons. ‘No. It would be too difficult to transport without breaking.’ That sounded plausible.
She glanced back at her mirror, looking disappointed. ‘That is all I can think of in this room. The paintings are my own work. They have no value.’
He examined the paintings again with renewed interest. They showed a talent and an appreciation of simple beauty t
hat she otherwise seemed to keep hidden. He gave himself an inward shake. He did not need to be more admiring of this woman.
‘Where to next?’ he asked.
‘Let us bring the items to the nursery,’ she responded. ‘It will be a good room to gather what we select and also to pack it up.’
It was obvious she’d given this project a great deal of thought already. ‘Excellent idea,’ he agreed.
The nursery was set up as a schoolroom—its most recent use, no doubt—but the school materials were stowed on bookshelves along one wall. There was a long wooden table where Miss Wallace and her brother and sister must have sat during their lessons, now empty and perfect for gathering what they selected to be sold.
Lucas placed the figurines on the table. She set down the jewellery chest.
‘Should we secure your jewels?’ Keep them locked in a safe?
She shook her head. ‘Our servants understand what we are doing. They are honest.’
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Where next?’
‘Let us start in the attic,’ she responded. ‘And work our way down.’
They took a lamp from the nursery and lit it from the dying fire in Mr Hargreave’s recently vacated guest room. Lucas followed her up the stairs to the attic floor and past the maids’ quarters to a door at the end. Miss Wallace opened it to reveal a shadowy jumble of wooden boxes, chests and dustsheet-covered furniture. One small window at the end gave the only light besides the lamp.
Miss Wallace had pulled off the cloths from the furniture and, under the lamplight, the air sparkled with dust particles. ‘We have several pieces of furniture made by William Brodie.’
‘Brodie,’ Lucas repeated. ‘I do not know the name.’
She walked through the maze of furniture. ‘He was an infamous cabinetmaker from Edinburgh, crafting furniture by day and robbing houses by night to support his mistresses and pay his gambling debts. My grandfather purchased the items before Mr Brodie’s criminal escapades came to light. The pieces were replaced, because my mother detested them. She could not forget that the maker of her furniture was hanged on the very gallows he’d built before his crimes were discovered.’
